


Fighter (Jalex Oneshot)

by Popples123



Category: All Time Low
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Jalex - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 14:45:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3900187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popples123/pseuds/Popples123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack always was and always will be Alex's little fighter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fighter (Jalex Oneshot)

**Author's Note:**

> I had to do a lot of research for this, so if I've got something wrong, please tell me ^-^  
> Also, this is written in Alex's pov as if he's talking to Jack.

I thought you were just ill at first. After all, you never listened to me when I'd tell you to wear a jacket if the weather was cold, so you were bound to come down with some kind of sickness sooner or later. In the beginning, it was just a really nasty cough that left your lungs aching and your throat burning. Then came the nausea, which made you unable to stand for long periods of time; made your head spin and your stomach churn until you were on your knees puking into the toilet. Just the flu, right?

A couple of weeks passed and there were huge warning signs that there was something very wrong with you. You used to be so full of energy, dancing around to your favorite songs, pouncing on me when I'd come home from work and drowning me in kisses and cuddles 24/7. Annoying, but cute. You used to always be on the move, but now you were so fucking tired and weak, refusing to participate in any activities you'd normally enjoy and that was worrying.

My concern grew further when I arrived home from a long day at work to find you hunched over on the bathroom floor, gagging and heaving although nothing but blood was coming up. That was really scary. The fact that three weeks had passed and you were still unwell got me thinking that a trip to the doctors would do you the word of good. Convincing you to go certainly wouldn't be as simple as it sounds; you always had a huge fear of needles and in your vocabulary, the word doctor translated into 'getting an injection'.

It only took two days for you to cave in and allow me to book an appointment, and I was really proud of you for letting me do so. 

A fifteen minute long car ride definitely didn't help your nausea and you threw up at least three times. Luckily, you brought a bucket.

You were clearly terrified as we entered the building but you managed to hold yourself together and stay as calm as possible. We sat on the uncomfortable plastic chairs for what felt like eternity. You were curled into my side, exhausted with bloodshot eyes and your voice almost nonexistent. Finally a man, dressed in all white and sporting a hairstyle that probably took two hours, called your name and you groaned when you realized this would require movement.

Gripping my hand tight, you forced yourself to stand and slowly walked towards the office as I supported you. Once we were inside, I introduced both of us seeing as it hurt you to talk. I had to stay put while Dr. James asked you questions and done some tests on you, trying to figure why you were sick and what had caused it.

Ten minutes later the examination was done and you were given some medication that should help you get better. The worst thing at this point was, because of work, I wasn't there to take care of you as much as I would have liked to. Hopefully the medication would do it's job, because I was desperate to go back to our normal lives. 

Of course, that didn't happen. Two weeks since your appointment had come and gone, and you were even worse than before. Lack of sleep meant you always had dark circles under your eyes and you were sickly pale; you looked dead. Your voice was completely gone now, due to almost constant vomiting and screaming in pain. Obviously the medication wasn't working, and you never protested when I suggested taking you to the hospital, the only place you feared more than the doctors. That showed how desperate you were for help.

For some reason, they wanted to do a CT-scan. I had no idea what that was, but they had to inject you with a contrast medium before they could do it. You didn't stop crying when they put the needle in, but you never put up a fight either and I was so proud of you for facing your fear.

The scan took around 20 minutes and I was anxious and restless the entire time you were gone. Once you came back, there were tears falling down your face and you snuggled into me, shaking like crazy and mumbling something about needles.

It was a huge relief when we were called into the office because this time, I was confident we'd find out what was wrong with you and how we could treat it.

Unfortunately, there was a slim chance you'd get better. Turns out you had stage three lung cancer, and I thought that was impossible because you had never touched a cigarette in your life. The extensive research I carried out that night whilst you were asleep proved otherwise. 

Over the course of roughly eight or nine months, you had several different operations in an attempt to remove the cancer or at least slow it down. A lot of the time, you had to get injections and I expected you to object but instead you just gritted your teeth and dealt with it. Every time you did that, my heart would swell with pride.

One day however, about a year after your diagnosis, you refused to let them operate, screaming for me to take you home because "what's the point? Nothing's worked so far!"

It was true. I couldn't argue with that because none of the surgery you had received during those 12 months had been successful in curing the cancer, and I didn't blame you for eventually losing hope. In the end, they heavily sedated you and performed the operation against your will. I was okay with it, though, because I hadn't given up on you and I didn't plan on doing so anytime soon.

Around that time was when I started calling you my little fighter, because although you had given up on yourself, you didn't stop fighting the cancer. You were determined to survive this, promised to fight and once you started believing in yourself again, I was sure you were going to recover.

And you did; 18 months after your diagnosis, you began to get stronger. Color had come back to your face and you no longer struggled for breath. Soon, you were able to walk around without being engulfed by an overwhelming feeling of dizziness and you appeared a lot happier. Things were finally starting to go well.

Shortly after you were showing signs of getting better, I was allowed to take you home. That was a great relief because you had been stuck in hospital for over four months and it was good to have you back.

Although it wasn't definite that the cancer was gone and you still had sick days, I was thankful for the little things. You blasting music and prancing around the kitchen in your underwear at 2am whilst I lay next door with a pillow over my head, resisting the urge to tell you to shut the fuck up and come back to bed. Coming home from stressful days at work to you leaping into my arms, smothering me in kisses, rambling on about an amazing movie you had watched that day and why I'd enjoy it. Trying to take a relaxing bath only to have you join me, overflow the tub with bubbles and smear them all over your face, dramatically impersonating Santa Claus. Having someone to hold at night.

You.

I was thankful for _you_. I was so fucking proud of you for fighting this and not giving up hope.

You were my little fighter, and you were winning this battle.

People say good things don't last forever, and I guess they're right. Not even 6 months after you came home, everything began to go downhill.

In the beginning, it was just a really nasty cough that left your lungs aching and your throat burning. Then came the nausea, which made you unable to stand for long periods of time; made your head spin and your stomach churn until you were on your knees puking into the toilet. Cancer.

It was back. I tried to deny it but the evidence was there in black and white. I was a wreck, but you didn't seem fazed about the cancer's return. If anything, you were ten times stronger than me, although it should have been the other way around.

A week after the symptoms began to show, I drove you down to the hospital and my suspicions were confirmed. The cancer had come back and this time it was stage four.

They operated on you almost immediately. I stood outside for hours, patiently waiting on some updates, but none came. Eventually, I left to go home and rest because I had to get up early for work the next day. As soon as my shift was over I rushed to the hospital, where I was told the surgery was unsuccessful. I should have expected this to happen, but I didn't expect it to be so soon.

You spent the next seven months in hospital and your health was rapidly deteriorating, but you were determined to keep on fighting no matter how bad things got.

You were really weak; hardly able to move, unable to breathe properly and you had to be fed through a tube but _every fucking time_ I walked through that door, you always managed to smile and whisper my name.

I still referred to you as my little fighter, because you weren't giving up although there was fairly large chance you weren't going to survive.

You were my little fighter, but you were losing this battle.

You loved watching the rain. It reminded you of how we met; fourteen year old you had crashed into fifteen year old me on a rainy, foggy night and we both slipped, fell onto the muddy grass and I threatened to kick your ass for ruining my new jeans.

My mom always did tell me, the most beautiful friendships tend to begin violently.

One night, you didn't smile and say my name like you usually would when I'd come to see you. At first I panicked, thinking you were dead, but then I realized you simply hadn't heard me enter the room because you were too busy focusing on the rain. You inhaled a sharp breath when I rested my hand on your shoulder, visibly relaxing once our eyes met. You didn't utter a single word but your eyes held so much emotion behind them. Love. Determination. Fear.

I was scared too, baby boy. I was really fucking scared. Your physical health was worsening and getting out of this alive seemed impossible by now, but you were still fighting, just like you had promised.

I gently moved you over and lay beside you. You were on the right, so you could have a better view of the raindrops splashing onto the window. I was on the left, so I could wrap my arms around your abnormally skinny waist and hold you close, cherishing this moment. Weekends were a blessing because I could spend the entire day _and_ night with you.

We spent hours in that position. Basking in each other's presence, enjoying each other's company. It took a while, but you had managed to roll over and face me, our noses touching and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop smiling. You weren't okay, but you were _here_. That was enough.

We stayed like that for even longer. Gazing into your eyes was beautiful. Your eyes didn't just contain stars, they inherited fucking galaxies.

Then, you spoke. It wasn't my name; the only word you had said to me for weeks. It wasn't an I love you; something most people would have expected you to say. No, it was four simple words.

_I will fight this._

Now, maybe it was just a false sense of hope, but I truly believed you would do exactly that. You would endure this, recover, and we could go back to the way we were before this stupid disease ruined our lives.

Despite everything that had happened in they past three years, not once did I see you as a burden. Before you started losing the ability to, you often talked about how you thought you were holding me back from doing my own thing and from living my own life. Truth is, my life was you, and I wanted you every fucking second no matter how awful things were.

A strong sense of security lingered in the atmosphere and I found myself asking if you really were going to fight. Dumb question. Of course you would; you were my little fighter.

You murmured four words again. They were barely audible but I managed to hear them, and this time they were different.

_I'll fight for you._

That was all the reassurance I needed. You eyes fell shut as I tenderly pecked your lips, whispering about how much I love you and why. Your breath ghosted over my neck and there was a nice, comfortable silence. The moonlight shone on us, causing you to glow in the pitch black night. It was fourteen minutes past two in the morning and I decided to let myself catch up on some sleep.

Your breathing slowed and I assumed this was because you were in a deep sleep. I pressed a kiss against your forehead and said, "you're doing well, lil' fighter."

Seventeen minutes past two, and the warm tickling sensation against my neck had vanished. Not unusual as you were recently having trouble breathing, but when it didn't reappear, I began to worry. Why had you stopped completely?

I carefully tapped your hand, quietly saying your name. Soon, gentle nudging turned to shaking and quiet whispers turned to screams of terror and panic, because you weren't responding at all. I longed for you to do or say something, but nothing happened.

When I checked for your pulse and couldn't find it anywhere, I was overcome by a blind panic, calling for help and begging you to wake up. They tried to revive you, but to no avail.

You were gone, and it didn't seem like you were coming back any time soon. You had fought long and hard against cancer but it got the better of you.

You were my little fighter, but you lost this battle.

The worst thing wasn't not being able to take care of you all the time; it was losing you. The pain was unbearable, unimaginable and I had no idea what I was supposed to do. You weren't supposed to die, not now. This was too soon.

Going back home was terrible. Home isn't home without you here. The house is always silent; no Fall Out Boy blaring from the kitchen at two o'clock in the morning. There's no hugs and kisses after awful days at work, no mopping up the bathroom floor after you've trashed it with water. I have nobody to cuddle into after I've had a nightmare, and I've been having a lot of those lately.

There's no you in my life anymore, and I don't know how to cope with that.

You done well, though. You done really, really well. You tried so hard to beat cancer and I'm so fucking proud of you.

You may have lost this battle, Jack, but you'll always be my little fighter.

**Author's Note:**

> I kinda like this.  
> Stayed up 'til 4am writing it on my wattpad (Popples123) (wooo shameless self promo)


End file.
